


heat; (literal and metaphorical)

by orionsbelt



Series: well then I guess this is happening [1]
Category: Borderlands
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Smut, magicial foreplay ensues, rhys tries to make a birthday cake for fiona and fails miserably, she doesn't care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 00:02:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5070082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orionsbelt/pseuds/orionsbelt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"though in reality it probably took longer than the romantic notion of ‘a few moments’ and looked rather more ris-kay than your average focus-group approved rom-com, was possibly the closest thing to whatever Romance really was that had ever happened to her. " </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Rhys attempts a kind gesture. Fiona realises something. much like burned cake, what happens next can't be undone.</p><p> </p><p>  <i> (part 1 of 2, coming soon) </i></p><p>Russian translation available <a href="https://ficbook.net/readfic/3732173/">HERE!</a></p><p>Art by the lovely wanderer-six <a href="http://wanderer-six.tumblr.com/post/132768471776/for-limerrences-based-on-her-amazing-fanfic-3-i/">HERE!</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	heat; (literal and metaphorical)

Rhys smells the acrid scent of burning before he even registers where it’s coming from.

They didn’t even have kitchens on Helios, it was frankly a miracle he even managed to get this far, cooking-wise- _wait, scratch that, that’s impossible._ There must have been kitchens on Helios. Rhys had just never seen them. He just took his allocated lunch tray and ate. Didn’t think about where it came from or how there had been 5 different Chef’s in the space of three months because the Higher Ups thought it was funny to pit them against in other in a sort of fucked up cooking contest and shoot the losers out an airlock.

He’s running as fast as his long beanpole legs can carry him, which is pretty damn fast, although his failing hands and the endless mantra of _shitshitshitshit_ going through his head isn’t helping him reach his destination any faster.

He was trying to do something nice, something that could possibly (and hopefully) be interpreted as romantic, if you squinted, something that would show her that he _cared_ , because he _did_ -

He reaches the tiny blocky kitchen and sees a small, innocuous shoelace-like waft of smoke rise from the oven door.

He lets out a puff of relief, his shoulders slumping. The scenes he’d concocted in his head played out more like Firey Death-Inducing Hellscape than Teeny Smoke Puff.

He began to walk towards the oven, armed with two comically large Hyperion-Yellow oven mitts (no doubt used in the annual Hyperion Chef-To-The-Death-althon), when the sing-song melody sounded from the door.

The doorbell. Fiona. Was outside. And he was Here. With a potentially ruined surprise. And no Backup.

Rhys froze, mid-step.

He could practically hear Jack laughing, if he tried hard enough, hear his fritzing laughter inside his head. The cruelty of it.

_“Good one, cupcake. Re-e-e-eally nailed that one.”_

Taking a deep breath, he mentally kicked himself. Then did it again.

Unsure as to what had possessed him, he was opening the door before he realised that it was probably a better idea to remove the surprise _before_ letting Fiona in.

He realised this as he spoke, his greeting faltering from delighted to _oh god why._

“He-e _-e-ey_.”

Fiona looked understandably puzzled, but smiled despite her confusion.

“Uh…hi?”

Rhys stood there awkwardly for a few moments, staring at her shoes, the worn brown leather of her boots, wondering what terrible thing he had done in his life to deserve this. There were probably quite a few, after spending so long as a company man for Hyperion. He was practically spoilt for choice.

Rhys continued to stand in the doorway, searching for any possible excuse to stall time.

“Are…are you wearing oven mitts?”

Fiona’s eyebrows arched incredulously. Something surfaced behind her eyes. Something like affection.

Rhys stuttered for a few moments, unclamping himself from the open doorway, staring at the large yellow pillow-like oven mitts on his hands.

“Uh….no. Well, technically, yes-“

“ _Technically_.” She mocked, grinning widely, clearly enjoying seeing him embarrassed.

“Well, they’re not exactly hypothetical, are they, _Fiona_?” Rhys replied, as if he had managed to one-up her.

She rolled her eyes, her grin faltering as she lifted her head up slightly, sniffing the air.

“Is that _smoke_?”

Rhys’ eyes widened until his eyebrows were as far as they could possibly go, making him look like a deer caught in the headlights. A deer in striped slacks. A deer with cybernetic implants. A deer with striped slacks and cybernetic implants wearing Hyperion-issued bright yellow oven mitts.

He laughed nervously for far too long, trying to subtly re-clamp himself to the doorway in a clearly forced relaxed manner, effectively blocking the door with his ridiculously tall frame.

Fiona stood stock still for a few moments, assessing Rhys, narrowing her eyes at his nervous expression-

Before deftly ducking through the gap under his left arm and darting towards the source of the smoke.

“FIONA, WAIT-“

He practically galloped after her, skidding slightly on the shiny new kitchen floor, nearly tripping in his mismatched (and ultimately incredibly endearing, though Fiona would never admit it) socks. One red with small blue stars, one purple with yellow stripes. On seeing them, Fiona briefly reminded herself to ask Rhys just where he found such hideously ridiculous socks.

She briefly entertained the idea that they were Hyperion-issue, and that Handsome Jack had worn similar pairs. The image was too good to resist.

“Are you _cooking_? Well, I guess _tried to_ now.” She looked shocked and thoroughly amused.

“ _Rhys._ Rhys, Rhys, Rhys. You really are a bundle of surprises, aren’t you? Never pegged you as the home-baking type.” She smugly crossed her arms over her chest, basking in her victory at having discovered something Rhys was obviously eager to hide.

She was secretly rather pleased at having discovered another _something_ about Rhys, another titbit to catalogue.

He scratched the back of his neck, or rather, he _attempted_ to, and brought his left hand back to glare venomously at the oven mitt still there. It was mocking him.

He trudged over to the oven flicking the heat switches off – one, the timer one, he thought, was flicked all the way around.

“It’s not like I spend all my free time icing cupcakes. I don’t normally cook, I just wanted to for-“

Pulling the oven door open, Rhys unintentionally released a smoke cloud big enough to block out Elpis.

Choking on the thick smoke and the sickly sticky scent of cremated sugar, he wafted the air with his oven mitts, which surprisingly helped rather a lot. Fiona, always the rational thinker, leapt to the nearest window and pulled it open, letting the smoke puff out into the afternoon. After a few long moments, the majority of the smoke had dissipated out the window, leaving only the strong burnt-sugar smell in it’s wake.

“OH MY GOD, WHAT DID I DO?”

Rhys looked horrified, almost mortified, almost like it something dearly loved and cherished had perished in that oven. (Little did she know, something had.)

He looked so devastated that Fiona bubbled over with laughter, clutching onto the windowsill for support, certain that without it she would have ended up gasping for air on the kitchen floor.

Rhys’ eyebrows sunk over his eyes, his mouth turned down.

“I’m glad you’re finding this so _entertaining_.”

“Oh Rhys, c’mon! And it _was_ pretty funny. Your face _, oh my god._ It was gold. _”_

She tapped her forehead. “That face is staying _right here_.”

“How could I mess this up? I mean, it’s a fucking _birthday cake_ -“

“It’s a _what_?”

Rhys didn’t say a word. He decided that keeping his mouth shut would avoid any more slips, or god forbid declarations of any sort.

So he slid the tray out, coughing a little at some residual smoke, and in an unashamedly delicate manner, placed it on the kitchen island.

What sat on it looked more like a large misshapen lump of charcoal than anything even slightly resembling a cake. It looked positively _volcanic_.

Rhys sighed, a defeated look in his eyes. He slumped sadly, turned his back to the cremated cake, away from Fiona, leaning on the kitchen island.

“I know you don’t normally celebrate your birthday, not after Felix. Sasha told me.”

He shrugged.

“I just thought that maybe you’d like something nice to make you like birthdays again. I don’t know.”

He sighed, his voice faint. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Something in Fiona sank.

She expected it was something that would pass, but after a few moments, whatever part of her that had decided to make her feel terrible was still persistently forcing the emotion.

She looked at Rhys. Even the back of him looked sad.

_No. Not fucking today._

Fiona swallowed the curious lump in her throat.

_Not him._

“Well then, I’m the birthday girl, so I get to cut the cake first.”

His head rose from his slumped position. He said nothing for a few moments, letting it sink in.

“ _What?_ ”

Fiona defiantly walked around the island and started rooting around the in the kitchen drawers.

“Where are your knives? A Hyperion boy like you should have knives everywhere. You know, in case someone tries to murder you for your position. Doesn’t that happen all the time at soulless corporations?”

“You want to _eat_ it?”

“Ah! Here they are. Perfect.”

She turned around to face him, knife in hand, mustering the biggest smile she could handle.

His facial expression grabbed whatever it was within her that had fallen and shoved it back into place. She could have tripped and fallen on the knife she was holding and she wouldn’t have noticed.

His face was pure admiration.

Relief, respect, _affection_ , a potent dizzying cocktail, and she was genuinely beginning to worry about holding a knife in whatever this state because it defiantly wasn’t safe knife practice-

He took his oven mitts off, those fucking oven mitts, as if he were preparing for something, flexing his long fingers-

His hands were on her hips.

She could feel his fingertips through her clothes, the heat of five, the chill of the others. It was intoxicating, even more so as his fingers started to drift upwards and back down again, further up every time, and Fiona would be more shocked at how he got over to her so fast if she wasn’t so distracted by how damn good it felt, his hands on her. (Finally.)

“Rhys-“

She knew he was tall, but _Jesus,_ being this close to him ( _god he is really close_ ) forced the truth home. She had to look up to see his face. Which she made a point of not doing.

She knew that if she did then that it was it. Point of no return. They could step away right now, she could gently remove his hands and he would understand and they could go back to whatever sexual-tension-tango they had been doing for the past however long. Play it safe.

_But was that what she wanted?_

“Fi-“

His breath ghosted over the hollow of her neck and she knew she was sunken.

She was spiralling, her fingernails digging into her palm, _restraining_ -

“ _Fi-o-na_?”

The word was a song, the way he said it, and he fucking laughed at the end, like a jackass, like he could feel how he made _her_ feel, the pulse beating rapidly in her neck (and hell, he probably _could_ ).

 He kissed her shoulder, then, over her clothes, a single kiss.

Another, just before where her skin began, and it was maddening.

Who knew that someone in socks as dumb as his could drive her this crazy? Who would have even considered that someone who thought tears could heal people and couldn’t come up with a decent come-back to save his life could drive her this far up the wall? (and in some unchecked part of her mind, she half-wished he literally would).

He kissed the jutting line of her collarbone, slowly, drawing it out.

The knife clattered to the floor.

The sharp ringing sound seemed to shove Fiona back into reality, seemingly snapping Rhys back as well.

He pulled his hands away, his body tensing up, his face darkened with shock and what seemed like fear bubbled underneath.

He flexed his fingers at his side, but only the flesh-and-blood ones, as if they were impatient, reluctant to be restrained.

Fiona took stock of her current situation.

_He had- uh, that is to say, he was going to- well, technically, he did-_

Was there going back from this?

Her pulse jumped at the thought.

She was stranded in his kitchen, caught between a probably more sensible desire to indiscreetly remove herself from the premises-

-and a rather less sensible more literal desire to have Rhys’ hands on her again.

All over her.

Basically everywhere.

She could see the flush in his face, now that she looked- Jesus, his _eyes_.

Or his eye, rather.

In retrospect, Fiona sometimes thought that if she had avoided looking at his eyes like she had done so expertly before, what had happened next would not have happened.

His left eye was dark, deep dark, like some kind of opposite eclipse wherein all the darkness is focused in on one single point while the light remains around it. His right remained unaffected (or so she thought.)

She slowly walked toward him, looking at his eyes, keeping them on her.

His chest rose and fell. Deep breaths.

She planned on saying something eloquent, something airy and god forbid delicate, but what came out was, to put it simply, _not_.

_“Put your fucking hands on me again.”_

Planning was not exactly her strong suit right now.

However, despite this notion, it seemed to Rhys that this was possibly the best thing she could have said, gauging from his reaction.

This reaction, though in reality it probably took longer than the romantic notion of _‘a few moments’_ and looked rather more ris-kay than your average focus-group approved rom-com, it was possibly the closest thing to whatever _Romance_ really was that had ever happened to her.

He kissed her, on the mouth, teeth and tongue and his hands on her neck, hair, back-

Being lifted, her legs around his waist, stifling a ludicrous sense of vertigo at this new height, being placed on the kitchen island and feeling his arousal against her-

His hands were in her hair now, her trademark hat pulled off and when he pulled away she felt a strange loss but came alive when he nipped and her jaw and _god fucking dammit_ grinded smoothly against her.

She moaned. An honest-to-god, no holds barred, genuine _moan_.

He laughed again, a sort of laugh that was not so sweet as to be a chuckle but not evil enough to be a cackle. It was a smug noise, a sound of victory.

_“You like that?”_

It was a taunt, a tease, in her ear, his breath hot and his hands everywhere, his flesh-and-blood one coming round to gently cup a breast, she could tell it was his human one because she could feel the heat through her clothes-

She let her head fall back, trying to cling to what clouded sense she had left-

Only to come crashing down when he moved his hand between them, between her thighs, running a warm finger along the heat that pooled there.

The breath in her throat stuttered out, words getting jumbled in her mouth as she tried to connect the Oven-Mitt-Rhys to the Rhys that was now building some insane pressure so seemingly flammable that she supposed a single spark would send her shooting through the damn roof in a ball of flame.

And there were plenty of those to go around, particularly from his surprisingly deft fingers- Fiona wondered what the chances were that she could get a literal electric shock from his robotic arm, wondered if maybe that was a contributing factor to her current state-

Time to get one back. Hadn’t it always been a competition with them?

“W-why don’t you ask your Echo-eye-whatever, Mr Roboto?”

He grinned, teeth bared.

She could see tiny scintillations beginning in his right eye, the inhuman blue, sparks firing and processes being executed.

“Hmm....interesting…”

He dipped to the hollow of her neck, planting a kiss on her neck, his voice vibrating against her throat.

“What? What does it say?”

“You really wanna know?”

“You know I do.”

“It says-“

He plants another kiss, on her chin, hearing her stuttering breathing in his ear-

“-that your body is producing the hormone oxytocin-“

-Rhys kisses the space beside her lips, relishing every second-

“-because I’m doing _this_.”

He moves his hand then, a defiant action against the heat between them, an action without even a hint of delicacy, and Fiona thinks she might burst into flames.

She arches back, and Rhys catalogues this moment in his head, the curve of her as she leans back, the feel of them slotted together, as he has been cataloguing every moment for the past many moments;

_Her eyes, her lips, the collarbones, her hands, what makes her sigh and what doesn’t, the admiration and kindness and affection in her movements that make up Her, Fiona, who is now between him and beneath him and above him and he thinks he might cry because he has wanted this for a very long time._

Then Fiona takes matters into her on hands. Literally.

She rubs slowly on his length with a deft hand, and he can see why she was such a good con artist because he did not notice her even begin to move until suddenly she was there, between them, her mouth on his ear-

-and he thinks maybe he’s ascended to Heaven or whatever Other Place you go to when insanely perfect women are insanely perfect and he’s probably high on whatever hormone arousal produces (if only he could scan himself) but he thinks he can die happy now.

“ _I don’t need robotic implants to tell me you liked that.”_


End file.
